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The steam filled the room, and for a moment, it was just him and the sound of water. No promos. No titles. No expectations. Just a young man who once sat on his couch watching TNA, now preparing to step into its spotlight. After toweling off and changing into a fresh set of lounge clothes, he called down to room service and ordered a hearty meal, steak, mashed potatoes, and a side of green beans.
When the food arrived, he thanked the server with a polite nod, rolled the tray in, and sat down. Hunger caught up to him fast. Every bite was savored, not just because the food was good, but because it grounded him. Gave him fuel. Gave him a sliver of normalcy in the whirlwind of his life.
Once the tray was empty, he pushed it aside and stepped out onto the balcony, arms resting on the railing as he took in the Nashville skyline.
The night had its own kind of magic, city lights flickering in the distance, the faint sound of live music drifting from a honky tonk far below. He breathed in the night air, crisp with just a hint of spring warmth, and let it all settle. The nerves. The excitement. The gratitude.
Tomorrow was a big day. He would be standing at the center of a historic moment, and every move, every word, every look had to count.
Eventually, he retreated back inside, closed the balcony doors, and collapsed into bed. The moment his head hit the pillow, sleep claimed him.
The next morning, sunlight peeked through the hotel curtains. Sandro stirred, then blinked his eyes open. It took a second to remember where he was, what day it was. Then it clicked. Show day.
He rose, stretched, and made his way back into the bathroom for another quick shower. The steam this time felt like armor, preparing him for battle.
He changed into casual but sharp clothes, a fitted black polo, dark jeans, clean sneakers, and slung his duffel bag over his shoulder. Inside, his ring gear was neatly packed, and draped over his other arm were the FCW Florida Heavyweight Championship and the TNA World Heavyweight Championship.
Both belts shimmered under the hotel lighting, a reminder of everything he was carrying, not just gold, but his legacy.
Down in the lobby, he found Rebecca already waiting by the front desk, scrolling through her phone. James and Bobby weren't far behind, cracking jokes about who had better cardio.
"Morning, champ," James greeted, nodding at Sandro with a grin.
"Morning," Sandro replied. "Y'all ready?"
"As we'll ever be," Bobby said, tossing a protein bar into his mouth. "You driving?"
Sandro nodded, tossing the keys into his hand and leading the way to the sleek black SUV parked outside. Once they were all loaded up, he slid behind the wheel and started the engine. The drive was quiet, but not tense. It was the kind of calm before a storm that felt electric, energy buzzing just beneath the surface.
As they approached TNA Headquarters, the building looked even more imposing than yesterday. Maybe it was the light, or maybe it was the realization that this wasn't just a meeting, it was game time.
They parked in the back lot reserved for talent and stepped out, each of them grabbing their gear. They didn't need directions this time. They knew where they were headed.
Rebecca gave Sandro a fist bump before heading toward the women's locker room.
"See you out there."
"Crush it," Sandro replied.
He followed James and Bobby toward the men's locker room. As they stepped inside, the room was already alive with chatter, laughter, and the sound of bags being unzipped and gear being unpacked.
James looked around and pointed with his chin. "Come on. Let's do some introductions."
Bobby led the way, and soon Sandro found himself standing before a circle of men he recognized from years of fandom from his past and current life, Bobby Lashley, Chris Sabin, Alex Shelley, Rhino, and D'Lo Brown.
Lashley was the first to extend a hand, a firm grip with a subtle nod of acknowledgment. "Firsthand see your match with Kurt. Hell of a performance out there."
"Appreciate it," Sandro replied, trying not to look like the wide eyed kid inside who couldn't believe Bobby Lashley just complimented him for his match.
Sabin chimed in. "Man, you got the crowd eating outta your hand. That entrance, the pacing, the finish? Smooth as hell, I like it."
"Thanks. Means a lot coming from you."
Rhino gave him a half smile. "Dusty always had a good eye. Looks like he wasn't wrong about you."
D'Lo crossed his arms. "You made believers outta a lot of people. Keep doing what you're doing. Can't wait to see the heights you reach."
It hit Sandro then, not the fame, not the pressure, but the sheer honor of being accepted. These were guys he had watched on TV, studied, admired in his past life. And now they weren't just sharing a locker room with him, they were treating him like one of their own.
He smiled, a real, warm smile. "I really appreciate the kind words, all of you. I've looked up to each of you for a long time. Just to be standing here with you is surreal. Thank you, for everything you've done for this business and inspired the new generations of wrestlers like me."
The humility in his voice was sincere, and it landed well. The group nodded, and there was a sense of unspoken respect settling between them.
With James and Bobby helping bridge the gap, Sandro found himself joining in the conversations. They talked shop, shared backstage stories, even cracked a few ribs about old booking decisions and road trip disasters.
There was laughter, camaraderie, and an ease that let Sandro know he wasn't just a guest, he was becoming part of the brotherhood.
As he sat on the bench lacing up his boots, he looked up and caught his reflection in the mirror across the room.
For a moment, he saw a kid, just a fan from another life. But then he looked again and saw something different. A man, a champion, a leader. The face of FCW and the new future of TNA.
He fastened his gear with precision, double checking every strap, every piece. The belts gleamed beside him, and he touched them briefly, grounding himself.
The locker room continued to buzz, and the time ticked closer to showtime. Producers came in and out with final notes, scripts, and cues.
Someone handed Sandro a printed promo outline, and he skimmed it quickly, he already knew most of what he wanted to say. He'd lived it. He didn't need a script to speak his truth.
Soon the time for the show to start arrived. The lights dimmed in the TNA Impact Zone, and the audience stirred with anticipation. A pulse of music hit the speakers, familiar, southern fueled, and rowdy. The crowd erupted.
Beer Money Inc., James Storm and Bobby Roode, walked out from the back, decked in coordinated black and silver gear, each man holding a championship belt in either hand.
The FCW Tag Team Titles slung over one shoulder, the TNA World Tag Team Titles hoisted high in the other. The roar of the crowd was deafening. It wasn't just a pop, it was a wave of love from longtime fans who had watched these two rise and dominate in both companies.
For diehard TNA fans, this was a dream come true. They no longer had to scour FCW tapings to witness Beer Money's brilliance, they were front and center, on TNA's stage, opening a monumental night.
James and Bobby exchanged a high five before heading down the ramp. They slapped hands with fans along the aisle, soaking in the adoration. Their grins were wide but focused, tonight wasn't just about popping the crowd.
It was about solidifying their dominance on a new level. Dual champions. Standard bearers. They slid into the ring, each man stepping onto the second rope in opposite corners and raising their titles high to another round of thunderous applause.
But that applause was soon overtaken.
A sharp, dramatic string of orchestral music flooded the arena. It was intense. Arrogant. Powerful.
The entrance music of the Main Event Mafia.
The tone of the crowd changed in an instant. Cheers morphed into heavy boos as Scott Steiner and Booker T emerged from the tunnel. Steiner, all bulging muscles and scowls, flexed his biceps and sneered at the crowd, barking obscenities and jabbing a finger toward the ring.
Beside him, Booker T looked equally menacing, his eyes locked on the ring, ignoring the fans completely as he mouthed something unintelligible, something that clearly wasn't friendly.
"Well, here we go, Don!" Mike Tenay's voice crackled over commentary. "The Main Event Mafia looking to claim their tag team gold tonight!"
"They've are circling these tag titles like sharks, Mike!" Don West added, his voice tinged with excitement and a bit of concern. "Beer Money's got a fight on their hands. Scott Steiner's not here for show, and Booker T's been a tag team legend longer than some of these fans have been alive!"
The challengers walked with deliberate intensity, not once breaking their death stare with James and Bobby. They ascended the steel steps and stepped into the ring, immediately getting up in the faces of Beer Money. The tension was thick. Chest to chest. Word for word. You could feel the animosity bubbling.
The referee quickly stepped between them, arms outstretched, urging both teams to their corners. Slowly, reluctantly, they obeyed. The ring announcer took the cue and stepped forward.
"Ladies and gentlemen, the following contest is scheduled for one fall, and it is for the TNA World Tag Team Championships! Introducing first, the challengers: representing the Main Event Mafia, Scott Steiner and Booker T!"
A wave of boos flooded the Impact Zone, drowning out even the ring announcer's words.
"And their opponents… they are the FCW Tag Team Champions and the reigning TNA World Tag Team Champions… James Storm and Bobby Roode! Beer! Money! Incorporated!"
The crowd exploded again as James and Bobby raised their titles in unison. They handed both sets of belts to the referee, who in turn passed the FCW titles to the ring crew.
Then, he held up the TNA Tag Titles for the audience to see, those belts gleaming under the arena lights, before passing them off as well.
He checked in with both teams. Got the nod. Then turned to the timekeeper.
DING DING DING!
The bell rang and the match was officially underway.
James Storm started for Beer Money. Booker T for the Mafia. They circled each other, Booker pointing and talking trash. James just smirked and tipped his imaginary cowboy hat before they locked up.
Booker pushed Storm into the corner, the ref stepping in for a break but Booker caught James with a stiff knee to the gut before the clean break. The crowd booed. Booker laughed and dragged Storm out with a snapmare, then hit a sharp kick to the back.
"That's veteran experience, Mike!" Don West said. "Booker T knows every trick in the book."
But Storm rolled through, using the momentum to kip up and surprise Booker with a jumping clothesline. The fans popped. Storm followed it up with a quick tag to Roode, who came in hot with a shoulder block and a running neckbreaker.
Roode covered.
One… Two… Kickout!
Roode kept the pressure on, pulling Booker to his feet and driving him into the corner. He tagged Storm back in, and the two delivered a crisp double suplex.
Beer! Money! the crowd chanted in rhythm.
But as Storm went for a second cover, Booker got his foot on the rope.
Booker scrambled to his corner and made the tag to Steiner, who entered like a freight train. He charged at Storm with a massive clothesline that flipped him inside out.
Then a belly to belly suplex followed by a gorilla press slam. The Impact Zone groaned as Steiner flexed and roared like a beast. Roode tried to come in, but the ref held him back, allowing the Mafia to double
team Storm. Booker slid in and landed a superkick before quickly sliding back out. Steiner went for the pin.
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Name: Alessandro Zhang
Age: 19 (2009)
Birthplace: Orlando, Florida USA
Brand: FCW
Wrestling Style: Mixed Of All Style
Faction: Dragon Boom (Tag Team)
Championship History: 1x FCW Tag Team Champions, 1x FCW Florida Heavyweight Champion, & 1x TNA World Heavyweight Champion